


Live Like a Monster, Die Like a Man

by TheEarlyKat



Series: Warden Leverette [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Especially in the Second Chapter, M/M, Self-Hatred, Slight Suicide Undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheEarlyKat/pseuds/TheEarlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He was a monster. Why not pull all the stops? There were cheers as the ballista was finally freed but there wasn’t enough time left to aim for a solid shot. He was slated for death anyway. What was stopping him?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I present to you, in one giant leap through canon, Leverette's face-off against the Archdemon. I'm trying to add the snippets I've written on tumblr in order, but there are very large gaps that need to be filled. I've been working on progressing his story rather than moving backwards, so it might be some time before the rest of Levy's Origins story is told.

_Magic is a sin in the eyes of Maker._

That’s what he’d been taught since he was young. Young enough to be impressionable, to be told that warming the mabari’s food with his hands was dangerous to mankind and his father kept him hidden to save his own hide rather than out of love, and that he was a mistake and a danger and a monster.

Leverette felt like a monster now, as he repeated the mantra drilled into him from his first day marched to Kinloch Hold.

Blood dripped from the hem of his robe and coated his hands, making the dry skin of his knuckles itch. Sweat ran down the sides of his face and stung the slash on his jaw, making him wince, a severe pull of his lips that showed yellowed teeth, and every ragged breath attempting to ease the raw agony in his lungs was tinged with the grimy scent of steel and fire and death. He wiped at his mouth. The Archdemon roaring down at him smelled worse.

Leverette tossed his broken staff to the ground and pressed his palms together, focusing on the feel of dirt against his skin and the ease in which his fingers slid together even as the blood dried between them. The Archdemon screamed again and dived from the tower, wings pulling hard to rush towards them. Leverette grit his teeth, broke his protective force field, and increased the gravity around him to yank it down. He wiped the fresh blood oozing from his cheek and marched towards the dragon struggling to rise. Three Redcliffe soldiers went down with a panicked sweep of a spiked tail and a dwarf roasted in his armor a second later.

He was a monster.

Leverette stepped over the body of a fellow mage and stumbled over another when he was forced to pause to keep the dragon down. The remaining soldiers attacked it with renewed fervor as the dragon snapped and snarled but remained chained to the crumbling castle floor by Leverette’s invisible ties. The mage counted their numbers and was relieved to find Alistair not among them – he’d heeded his warning to stay away. Morrigan was nowhere to be seen, fleeing as she’d promised when he refused her offer of a ritual and Zevran was with the others outside helping the panicked citizens.

There would be none to see him unleash his power, no friends to fear him, no friends to hurt with his magic. His passing, when this was over, would leave its own wound, but one not caused by his curse.

He was born a monster, but he wouldn’t die one.

Leverette charged the Archdemon, vision blurring in his excretion to reach the dragon before his mana cut out. He reached out, hands crackling with static, and grabbed ahold of one of the many spikes lining its jaw. Electricity coursed along the pattern of blood running between its scales and Levy pulled himself up, booted feet scrabbling for purchase on the rough maw.

He had no weapon; his staff was in splinters on the ground beneath him. He had no mana and his veins felt empty when he reached for just a bit more to strengthen his arms as he crawled from the sharp points along the Archdemon’s face to the relative safety of its neck. His last spell had stunned it and the Redcliff soldiers were taking advantage of its slow limbs. Some dwarves aided them while others worked on fixing the ballista. Leverette inhaled deeply, held the air in his mouth, and exhaled slowly, forcing the mana to regenerate faster.

One more good strike would take the beast down, and he wouldn’t let the dragon get a change to attack again. It rumbled beneath him and he took another breath.

The ballista was still clogged, the ropes snapped, with no way to fix them in the mere moments they had left. Leverette pounded his fist on the scales, cursing when they cut his knuckles and cursed the blood that welled from the wounds.

He was a monster. Why not pull all the stops? There were cheers as the ballista was finally freed but there wasn’t enough time left to aim for a solid shot. He was slated for death anyway. What was stopping him?

Levy shook his head and clenched his hands, hiding the blood from view until it leaked between his knuckles. He wasn’t that kind of nightmare.

Leverette leaned over and unbuckled the straps securing his dragon-scale leg to the ragged end of his leg. With the last of his magic, grimy and ungraceful, he pushed just enough power into the wood to enchant it and keep it from shattering. He threw it down to the dwarves and commanded them to load the ballista

The Archdemon rumbled and he felt it in his thighs, a low sound that settled deep in his stomach. He held on tighter to the dragon, ignoring the pain in his hands and shutting out the call of mana. Magic was a sin in the eyes of the Maker and if there was anything he could do, he would do this. He would show the world the real reason it was feared. That if it was used, there would be no more war – and that was the scariest thing in the world. Peace.

The ballista snapped, wood cracked, and the dragon beneath him screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

If this was what death felt like, Leverette hoped it would end quickly.

The pain in his hands was momentarily forgotten as the dragon beneath him fell, roar cutting off into a wet screech when the makeshift arrow hit its chest. He held on tighter, his thighs and forearms earning their own ribbons of red as he fought to stay upright while the Archdemon rolled onto its side in a final attempt to dislodge the Warden wrapped around its neck. Dust and dirt and Fade-smoke filled his lungs with every inhale and the weight of the blighted dragon crushing his leg was not easy on the nerves already rubbed raw from the battle.

Levy tried to wriggle free, wedging his inflamed stump of a limb between the ground and the dragon in attempt to give him leverage. He squeezed his eyes shut, scraped up every last tendril of mana from his bones, and hissed a breath full of smoke and lightening with one last shove. With his eyes closed, he didn’t see the tower spin around him and his conscious take him to the Fade until he was opening his eyes moments later.

Leverette blinked hard at the ground bouncing beneath him and stretched to feel the hands wrapped around his hips, keeping him place draped over someone’s shoulder. His hip popped at the movement and he groaned. He searched for another hint of magic to send it to the ripped tendon there and pressed his forehead against the cool metal armor of the man lugging him from the battle to ease the nausea.

“Hey, easy, easy,” the man said, and Leverette rubbed his cheek against the breastplate with a soft moan, relieved to hear Alistair’s light chastising. “You just fought an Archdemon, sit still for a minute.”

“All by myself, thanks to you.” Leverette’s breath condensed on the metal and he winced at the blood drying on his throat in the reflection. He felt Alistair chuckle beneath him.

“You were the one to tell me to stay out of the main fight, you know.”

Leverette sighed, and though the breath irritated his ribs, he still found himself able to smile. “So now you follow orders.”

“I always follow orders,” Alistair defended with a sharp inhale, high in mockery. “I just sometimes forget them at the worst of times.”

Leverette chuckled and the act was enough to send another rush of pain lancing across his torso. He stiffened in Alistair’s arms enough for the man to attempt to shift him and alleviate some of the pressure of his pauldrons on his stomach and he sucked in a welcome breath. The Warden hadn’t mentioned the death after the Archdemon would be painful and long lasting.

“When…” Levy licked his lips when his voice trembled in his throat and he clenched his hands. His pulse jumped in his wrists and fresh blood squeezed from scabbing cuts as slow and thick as the fear that settled alongside it in his veins. Now, after coming to terms, even agreeing with it, he was afraid to die. One last mage in the world to worry about, he told himself, steeling his thoughts. “When am I…”

Alistair’s stride faltered and Levy’s knee banged against the man’s armored thigh. “A-about that…” Leverette’s hands unfurled.

“Mi amor.” Soft hands cupped his face in a softer embrace and thumbs brushed the hair sticking to his face before a tattooed face rose into his vision. “I told you I would follow you inside and look what happens when I am not there.” Levy wrapped red fingers around Zevran’s wrists and tugged, efforts weak and more for show than actual want for the elf to stop. His fingers were warm where they glided through sweat and blood and the ability to rest his head without fear of rhythmically banging it on the breastplate was a welcome relief. “I am glad to see you again, dear Warden.”

Leverette felt his smile disappear under the touch of chapped lips for a moment, keeping them closed against the stubborn tongue pressing forward. “Zev,” he murmured.

“Allow me this,” the elf whispered back, and Leverette felt his hands still. “I will not see you run again.”

“Zevran.”

“Warden.” The assassin moved back a step and Leverette patted Alistair’s elbow. The Warden lowered him to the ground and the elf moved forward to catch him. He hummed low in his throat. “But it seems I have no worries about running, yes?” Leverette sighed and curled one hand around his side, tossing the other across his lover’s shoulders. “Yes, I admit, the joke does not seem as tasteful in this moment.”

“That’s not…” Leverette hesitated, biting his tongue, and concentrated more on hobbling the rest of the way out of the keep. Zevran kneaded at his shoulder every other step and though it soothed the burn in the muscle, his skin crawled with the touch in a way no darkspawn nor blight-sickness could cause. His skin wasn’t molting, his joints that weren’t already damaged were still intact, and the waves of dizziness came from blood loss and mana imbalance. There was no thick, oily presence coiling low in his stomach or a loudness in his head other than the pounding of his heart in his ears. Leverette was far from dying, and, aside from himself and Morrigan – who had not been a part of the battle nor in the camp outside – Zevran was the only other to know of the ritual, told in the confidence of whispers after a lover’s caress in the privacy of a shared tent and the dark of twilight.

The Redcliffe soldiers had set up a tent not far from the Chantry, and Zevran guided him to one of the chairs inside. Leverette lowered himself into it bonelessly. Zevran knelt in front of him to unbuckle his boot and he bit his lip, watching his lover trace his fingers around crusted buttons and twisted straps lightly, almost reverently. He had been ready to die, unthinking of what his lover wanted, assuming the Chantry had gotten into the minds of everyone. Who would love a mage? A monster? A Warden? Thedas would have been a better place without him and yet…Zevran was not Thedas. Zevran was a crow quarking at dawn, fallen trees the right angle to climb, ale and smoke and soft leather.

“You didn’t ask me,” Levy rasped, throat going tight.

“Nor did you ask me, dear Warden.”

Leverette let his head fall until his chin rested against his chest and Zevran’s fingers danced up the thigh of his missing leg. He shivered, regret making his skin go cold. “No, I didn’t.”

The elf hummed and flattened his palms against his knee. “There was no need, I think. You would have said no and I would have said yes.” He shrugged and his soft smile hade the tattoos on his cheek curve. “We would still be here, talking like this, no matter if I asked or not.”

“I suppose…”

“You suppose?” The elf lifted a brow and chuckled. “I know these things. You did not tell the bumbling fool that calls himself King because you did not want the option.” He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the rough end of his leg before leaning back on his knees. “I know what it is like, amor, to want the end. You did not give me that gift, and I thought it only fair I did the same. You have shown me a wonder I did not think capable of knowing, and I could, I would not, let you allow yourself to miss out on it.”

Leverette felt the corners of his mouth twitch up. “Is this wonder you?”

His laugh was louder, head tipped back. “Why, of course. What would make you think of anything else?”

“What happens now, then? With…” Levy swallowed, shoving back the image of Alistair and Morrigan, together, mixing blood and passion, along with the sour taste of bile in his throat at the thought of the monster that may have been conceived from it.

The soft patterns of fingers tracing along his skin paused. “That…I must confess I do not know. The witch told me no more than you. But I can guess that in a matter of months a beautiful new person, of course, not as beautiful as myself but more beautiful than the average man, will crawl the same land that we traverse, plundering and drinking and love-making.”

Leverette reached out and caught his chin when he lowered his head and the mage pulled him closer. The elf shuffled forward willingly and rose to a crouch. “I love you,” he whispered, almost afraid for the others wounded in the tent to overhear.

“Such a strong word for a man willing to die.” Leverette gave him a lopsided smile.

“I know. I’m not sorry.”

Zevran shook his head. “I did not expect you to be.”

“Don’t make my decisions for me, next time.” Leverette tugged him closer and met the kiss halfway.

“Do not make me have to, dear Warden,” Zevran answered against his lips.


End file.
